


Casual Correspondence

by dragons_in_the_north



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety & Depression, F/M, Implied/Referenced Canon Suicide Attempt, Jealous!Jimmy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Season/Series 06, Thomas and Andy are friends, but also it's a Comedy of Errors???, letter writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28507512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragons_in_the_north/pseuds/dragons_in_the_north
Summary: This Andy bloke was the irritant that lay at the heart of Jimmy’s riled-up feelings. He’d known that a new footman would be hired eventually, but he hadn’t expected Thomas to take such an interest in the fellow, at least not so quickly. Thomas didn’t like anyone straight away—aside from Jimmy, but that was a different sort of matter. Their true, proper friendship had come with time, the result of trust and compromise on the part of both men, and… and… what was so bloody special about a recently-promoted hall boy, anyway?Or, two idiots and a footman try to navigate an imaginary love triangle.
Relationships: Daisy Mason/Andy Parker, Thomas Barrow & Andy Parker, Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent
Comments: 15
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

_2 Mar. 1925_

_Dear Jimmy,_

_Firstly— If you ever compare yourself to Alfred again, I’ll be forced to catch the next available bus to York to knock some sense into you. Being a waiter is decent work, and you’ve a rented attic all to yourself. The best Alfred can hope to be is Mrs Patmore in trousers, but you could be Hotel Manager one day, if you play your cards right. I’d offer advice on that front, but I suspect I’d only muddle your life as badly as I’ve muddled mine._

_Secondly— The whole downstairs crowd knows about the letter you sent. Despite an admirable attempt on my part at keeping a straight face when the morning post arrived, Daisy waltzed in carrying a plate of toast and immediately asked what I was grinning for. I could have told her to mind her own business, I suppose, but I’m making an effort to be more agreeable these days. It’s a real bugger. I read aloud the funnier bits to the assembled rabble at dinner in the servants’ hall. Everyone had a good laugh at the image of a gang of stray cats pursuing you down the street, sausages nicked from your hotel stuffed into every pocket. The only exceptions were Bates, who pretended not to hear, and Carson, who grumbled about impropriety, so no surprises there._

_Thirdly— As for your request, there isn’t much sordid upstairs gossip to share, I’m afraid. Lady Mary has a pack of suitors hovering about her at all times, but they are, to a man, dead boring. Not a single Irish Socialist or married Magazine Editor in the bunch. His Lordship has not yet managed to throw the estate into ruin. Lady Rose is married and living in New York now, so she can’t scandalize the Dowager nearly as well as she used to. And the most exciting thing that happens to Lady Edith these days is being stricken by the occasional papercut when she’s down in London fussing with her magazine._

_Things are mostly the same as you remember downstairs. However, in Branson’s absence, our Daisy has become increasingly emboldened by a Revolutionary spirit. The other day, unprompted, she went off on a tear about the Labour Party as she put the finishing touches on upstairs dessert, nearly knocking over a meringue dish in her zeal. She’s even working to get herself an education. Good for her, I say—although don’t tell her I’m the one who said it. Somebody has to keep those toffs on their toes._

_And fourthly— I do hope you won’t take another year to reply to this letter. (Ha-ha!)_

_Oh—I nearly forgot to mention—Carson has hired a new footman, Andy. I recommended him for the job, actually, after he came on as temporary help for Lady Rose’s wedding. He was only a hall boy at his last place, but he’s a quick and able learner, so I’m confident a man of experience such as myself can whip him into shape in no time. He’s nice to have around, besides. I suspect the two of us are going to get on._

_That’s all for now. As always, I am_

_Your Friend,_

_Thomas_

_P S: Have you given any more thought to being a good boy and settling down? I’ll bet the girls in York are more to your liking than the ones at Downton. Just a thought._

Jimmy frowned as he reread the letter for the third time seated at his rickety desk up in the attic. Drizzling rain dripped in through a hole in the roof, pattering against the metal bottom of the bucket in the corner. Downstairs, a baby was bawling, two dogs howling to fill the silence of the ragged breaths between cries. The family who lived in the rooms below mainly consisted of a band of dirty, half-feral children and an even larger band of dirty, half-feral hounds. He had a standing invitation for dinner each night, which he had learned to avoid in favour of cold fish and chips eaten in the relative safety of his room.

As he slid the paper back into its envelope, unpleasantness prickled in his stomach. Guilt, perhaps. He hadn’t _meant_ to leave writing to Thomas so long. But this was the first time since leaving Downton that he’d felt his life was on some kind of stable footing. Before he’d gotten this job, his missives would have been a long string of: _Dear Thomas, got sacked again_ ; _Dear Thomas, gambled all me money away again_ ; _Dear Thomas, had to sell me cufflinks to buy food... again_. He hated to think of Thomas worrying about him, or worse _pitying_ him.

No, it wasn’t guilt that unsettled him. At least, mostly not. He lay down on his bed, still dressed in his clothes, metal springs creaking ominously beneath him. Day had bled into night; when the rainshower had died down a bit, when there was a moment of peace belowstairs, he’d sneak out for a bite to eat at the pub down the street. But his feet throbbed inside his shoes from endless hours bustling back and forth from the kitchen’s stifling heat to the dining room’s droning chatter, and he found he lacked the energy to rise from the mattress. Instead he rolled over onto his side, hands curled up on the pillow beside him. The fingertips smelled of ink, of cigarettes, of Thomas’ cologne. Familiarity lulled Jimmy to sleep.

In his dream, Thomas stood in the Abbey’s courtyard at midday, sharing a smoke with a stranger wearing a footman’s uniform. The man looked somewhat like Jimmy, although he was younger and handsomer and blonder and perhaps a bit taller, as well. Their fingers—that is, those of Thomas and his annoyingly perfect companion—brushed as the smouldering fag passed between hands. Two heads, one dark and one fair, bent near to one another. The footman whispered as if imparting a thrilling secret, although Jimmy—who was a mute, motionless spectator to this scene—couldn’t make out precisely the words. Thomas laughed, a low, pleased sound, fingers curling around the other man’s upper arm to pull him closer still. A rough, scratching sensation slid across Jimmy’s cheek, a wetness on his skin so much like tears—

He woke to a dog licking his face.

“ _Gah!_ ” he said. He bolted upright and attempted to shoo the mutt away with wide, sweeping gestures of his arms. Staring up at him blankly, the horse-sized creature sat back on its haunches, tail thumping against the wooden floorboards. A line of drool dripped from its jaws.

Suddenly, Jimmy’s sleeping thoughts collided with his waking ones, and he realised— “It’s Andy.” The dog cocked its head. “No, not _you_ ,” he said. With a whine, the dog trotted out the door.

This Andy bloke was the irritant that lay at the heart of Jimmy’s riled-up feelings. He’d known that a new footman would be hired eventually, but he hadn’t expected Thomas to take such an interest in the fellow, at least not so quickly. Thomas didn’t like _anyone_ straight away—aside from Jimmy, but that was a different sort of matter. Their true, proper friendship had come with time, the result of trust and compromise on the part of both men, and… and… what was so bloody special about a recently-promoted hall boy, anyway?

Jimmy stood up and threw on his coat, tiptoeing out onto the landing. It wasn’t that he was _jealous_ , that would be silly. He was suspicious. Some chappie from God knows where befriends Downton Abbey’s under-butler, then suddenly he’s a footman in the great house? Jimmy knew ruthless ambition when he saw it. He’d be keeping an eye on that one and no mistake.

Hours later, he sat slumped over so his elbows rested on the long, sticky bar counter, the remainder of ale from his umpteenth pint forming a thin, amber ring at the bottom of his glass. He’d consumed an unquestionably unwise amount of alcohol, and the bright, noisy atmosphere of the tiny pub whirled around him in a dizzying carousel. A hazy thought rose from the miasma of his mind to the forefront of his consciousness, floating just out of reach. Something _important_ —something about how Thomas had written of this Andy person just before pivoting to talk of romance—

But then Jimmy dashed to the washroom to be sick into the toilet, and by the time he came stumbling back out again, the thought had vanished.

In his next letter, Thomas wrote something truly shocking. Hidden though it was in a sea of bland updates and anecdotes, Jimmy could read the words plainly enough in Thomas’ tall, spidery hand: _Apparently Andy is quite experienced with clocks already, so that’s one less concern on my plate._ Not that Jimmy realised the indiscrete nature of such a statement at first; he was much too distracted by his usual morning dash, a piece of toast clamped vise-like between his teeth as he did his level best to tug on his trousers without falling over.

Only when he unloaded a heavy tray for a luncheon party of six did the sentence return to his mind, channeled through the ungentle drawl Thomas used with those he thought beneath him— _Andy is quite experienced with clocks already._ Jimmy returned the empty tray to the kitchen, emerged with another full one. _Andy is experienced with clocks._ In his little notepad, he wrote down the orders of a blandly smiling couple, one of whom had a bit of lipstick smeared on her front tooth. _Andy is experienced with clocks, Andy is experienced_ , Thomas’ voice chanted now, repeatedly, with the malice of a particularly cruel nursery rhyme. Jimmy trod the familiar path back to the green, swinging doors, his hands sweating in their white gloves.

It was hardly his _fault_ that he’d had no prior experience with clocks before arriving at Downton. There’d been no opportunity to learn at his old place, nor in his life before service. Then when there _was_ a chance to truly learn the ins and outs of clocks—with a willing, able teacher, even—his other duties were always drawing his attention away. Mr Carson glowering and sputtering, the eyes of the other servants forever watching, meant that Jimmy could never do the things he _really_ wanted to do. By the time he’d worked up the nerve to gain a more intimate understanding of the delicate mechanisms, to dip curious fingers in amongst cogs and gears, he’d been given the boot, hadn’t he? Now he worked in a hotel, and if there were clocks about, he certainly wasn’t allowed to touch them.

Gregory, who’d been passing by with a laden tray, stopped dead. “Something the matter, Jimmy? Your face has gone all red.” A Waldorf salad tipped dangerously close to the rim before Gregory hastily adjusted his hand position. Jimmy was the only fellow in the place with any sense of balance or poise. But Gregory was all-right; he lended Jimmy fags sometimes.

“Right as rain, me,” Jimmy replied. He put on his best drawing room smile. “Don’t you worry.”

As soon as Gregory was looking the other way, he made for the washroom with all possible haste. He bolted the door and wet his face with cold water. That was better, a little. Still he had a tired, grey, deflated look about him, but such was his appearance more often than not these days. There was nothing for it.

When he arrived back in his attic room come evening, Jimmy found Thomas’ latest letter lying open on his desk, where anyone might pop in and read it. Embarrassment prickled along the nape of his neck. He slid open a locked drawer and pulled out the first note, wrapping the two together with a green, silk ribbon that had belonged to his mother. Thomas’ words needed to be kept in a safe place, because… because they were proof of his illicit affair with footman Andy.

That was the obvious conclusion here. Thomas may not have penned soppy paragraphs detailing stolen kisses in shadowy corridors, but even a foolish romantic like him would have to exercise some restraint, given the nature of his situation. People read mail that wasn’t meant for them all the time. Clearly, Thomas had been itching to share his joy with _someone_ ; Jimmy had simply been the most suitable candidate. They were close friends, Jimmy was well aware of his invert tendencies, and—while they’d never discussed it at length—Thomas knew that Jimmy didn’t think it a sin or any such rot.

Jimmy settled into the wobbly desk chair to pen a reply. Nib scratching against stationery, he wrote _Dear Thomas_ —then stopped short. This letter needed to communicate—secretly, of course—that he understood his role as Thomas’ confidant, and he took the responsibility seriously, and he wished Thomas every happiness. But also he couldn’t leave out the matter of Andy’s motivations. If anything, they seemed even more questionable now. Probably Thomas was so wrapped up in the notion of having acquired a… companion, he’d given no thought to what might happen when his fellow had scrambled up to the top of the career ladder, and Thomas had ceased to be useful. Hypocrite or no, Jimmy ached at the idea of Thomas’ heart being broken all over again.

He scrapped one draft, two, seven. His sentences kept coming off as rude or bitter or miserable, although of course none of those could be further from the truth. In the end, he found himself writing, _I’ve realised I never answered the question from your first letter. I’ll not lie and pretend I haven’t noticed two of the hotel maids eyeing me up, but I’ve decided to stay away from women for the time being. As far as I’m concerned, they’re more trouble than they’re worth._ Which wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all.

On the other side of the door, a few of the children were playing a sort of game that involved dashing up and down the stairs at top speed. Thunderous, tiny feet kept pace with Jimmy’s curiously pounding heart.

The chill greyness of early Spring gradually surrendered to the heat of late Summer. Along the way, Thomas and Jimmy exchanged a fair number of letters. In the brief hours between work and sleep, Jimmy read about Branson’s venture into the car business ( _He’s taking to it like a monkey to organ grinding_ ), and the Abbey opening its doors to the villagers ( _You’d have thought they were turning up with torches and pitchforks for all the fuss the Family made_ ), and the wedding of Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes ( _Oh, she seems happy enough, but I keep expecting her to slip me a note saying, ‘Help! I’ve saddled myself with a grumpy, old bugger for life!’_ ).

The messages cheered him to no end, but when the sun went down, each one brought with it a fresh round of distressing dreams. The scenario was always the same—Thomas and his Adonis footman being… _intimate_ in increasingly exposed locations. One night, Jimmy jolted from a particularly vivid vision of Mr Barrow bending Andy over the dining room table as the Crawleys kept right on chatting and sipping bowls of cucumber soup, to find a wet, clinging spot on the sheets he’d not felt between his legs since he was a hall boy. Creeping down the stairs shortly before dawn, arms full of bed linen, to wash out the offensive stain in private, he knew that his youthful lapse was the result of his frustration at abstaining from the pleasures of the fairer sex, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the actual _content_ of his dream.

Of course, Thomas never wrote anything nearly so explicit. Mostly he included Andy in his letters to mention how well the footman was taking to country living. Apparently he had developed a habit of taking solitary strolls deep into the woods, and he spent his half-days helping Mr Mason with the pigs. Jimmy, not blinded by affection the way Thomas was, suspected this innocent, farmboy act to be a ruse, but he didn’t worry. And he knew from the occasional mention that Thomas was looking for work outside of Downton, but he didn’t worry about _that_ either.

He worried a _little_ when, in the midst of August, Thomas’ steady stream of letters dried up. But then Baxter sent a brief note, obviously dictated by Thomas, which explained that he was laid up with the flu, and she, Anna, and not-to-be-trusted Andy were taking good care of him. He was fine. And—while a part of him wished he were there to read Thomas the paper and to make certain he didn’t slip away unexpectedly in the middle of the night the way Jimmy’s mother had—Jimmy was fine too. Fine, fine, fine.

At least, until September rolled around.

On an unseasonably warm, wet evening directly following the end of Jimmy’s shift, he hunched under the shelter of a dripping awning at the staff entrance so his cigarette did not go out. Thomas’ most recent letter was tucked into his inner jacket pocket. Usually they came in the morning post, but Jimmy tended to save reading them for later. It was something to look forward to at the end of a long day that wouldn’t leave him with a dreadful headache in the morning.

Thomas didn’t have much to share, evidently. He commented a bit on Carson spilling wine at dinner and Lady Edith’s millionth go-round of her “downtrodden spinster” act before closing with: _I’ve discovered that, in his off-hours, Andy’s written a whole stack of romantic poetry. He finally decided to let me have a look at them. You hardly need to read a word to see how hopelessly smitten he is. It’s too early to say if his affections are returned, but do you know I’m hopeful. For the first time in ages, I’m hoping for something._

Inside of Jimmy, a light unceremoniously flickered out. He’d been holding on to the possibility that this was an affair of convenience, that Thomas had merely taken advantage of a young, handsome opportunity. Perhaps it _had_ indeed been only a bit of fun at first, but the man Jimmy knew would never refuse an offer of love so tenderly given.

When Thomas left—and he wrote more and more about it every day—Jimmy had no doubts that Andy would be going with him. Thomas would be a butler, finally, in Monte Carlo, Berlin, somewhere absolutely thrilling, and the two lovers would zip off on adventures all the time. But then Andy would become bored, because he was a foolish boy who didn’t appreciate that there was only one Thomas Barrow in all the world, not until it was too late. He would abandon Thomas for a younger man or a better job, probably taking all the money to boot.

Sorrow sank like an anchor to the pit of Jimmy’s gut... on his best mate’s behalf, of course.

The clatter of boot soles echoed against the cobblestones. Three men in rumpled suits stumbled into view, one of them with a half-empty bottle tucked under his armpit. Jimmy watched them, wide-eyed, although the fellows seemed even more surprised than he. “It’s the wrong alley, innit, Ern?” said the tallest one to the man with the bottle. The other piped up, “Should’ve listened when I told you to turn left, you daft sod!”

The one called Ern rolled his eyes. “Yeh, I worked that out for meself, funnily enough.” That dark, beady gaze landed on Jimmy. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know how to get to The Red Dog from here, would you, mate?” Jimmy did. The men thanked him and shuffled away, except for Ern, who treated Jimmy to a lopsided grin that shot a cold, creeping sensation up his spine. “Care to join us for a game of cards?”

Thomas would have told Jimmy not to be such a fool. But he wasn’t there, was he? And he was _happy_ , whereas Jimmy…

Jimmy nearly threw the letter into a filthy puddle, but the mere thought made him feel as if his lungs couldn’t get enough air. So he put Thomas’s words back in their proper place, the pocket close to his heart, before wandering off with strangers into the night.

A week later, another message arrived from Thomas, this one undated and very short:

_Jimmy,_

_I’ve gotten a new job. I’ll be leaving in a few days. Once I’m settled, I’ll send the new address on to you._

_Thomas_

Months passed, and no more letters came.

It was March 1926. Gregory had stopped asking Jimmy what the matter was ages ago. Ernie and his mates had vanished into thin air, although Jimmy reckoned they would return next time they fancied taking him for all he was worth. As he handed menus to a severe-looking older man, his even sterner wife, and a frightened rabbit of a woman who could only be their daughter, he noticed the manager glaring at him. He must have been a dreadful sight. He’d hardly slept the night before, his skull felt two sizes too small, and the black eye he’d gotten last week had faded to a sickly yellow.

He’d be out on his ear before too long. Once, he’d taken a certain pride in his work, knowing that Thomas was, from afar, taking pride in _him_. Now, he didn’t feel much of anything. He won at the racetrack, and he felt nothing. He drank so much his head spun, and he felt nothing. Sometimes he felt things in his dreams. He’d dream of Thomas—without that Andy, thank God. Instead, he and Jimmy sat alone in a quiet, private place. He smiled the way he did when Jimmy played his favourite tunes on the piano, and spoke softly for a long time. Jimmy could never remember what was said, but he often woke to the cold light of morning with hot tears tracing down his face.

As he filled sweating water glasses in the loud, over-lit dining room, the daughter bunched and unbunched the cloth napkin on her lap. “It was just terrible of that butler to leave you in the lurch, Papa,” she said, “but it’s been two months, and you’ve found a new fellow. Must you go on about it so?”

“Yes, I must!” her father blustered, jowls quivering. “A servant wouldn’t have done a thing like that in my day. I hired the man for a high position in a good house—which he was _lucky_ to get, mind you—and just when we’ve gotten used to him, he buggers off back to the house he came from.”

“Language, dear,” said the wife as she buttered a roll.

“Downton Abbey is a very grand house.” The daughter addressed her empty plate rather than look at anyone’s face. “I suppose they offered him a larger salary.”

“That shouldn’t _matter!_ It’s the principle of the thing!” The old man pounded his fist against the table. Several other patrons turned to stare. From across the room, Jimmy’s manager appeared to have swallowed a live hornet. But for Jimmy, the world had narrowed to two words, swirling around his brain— _Downton Abbey, Downton Abbey_.

“I think it’s for the best,” the wife said. Ice cubes clinked against her water glass as she raised it to her lips. “I much prefer our new man. That Barrow always put on airs, as if he thought he was better than _us_.” She chuckled at the notion, a horsey, tuneless bray.

Hearing Thomas’ name aloud for the first time in two years was like… like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Jimmy stopped mid-pour, setting the jug down beside the daughter’s half-empty glass. Gradually, the conversation petered out as, one by one, they noticed him standing there motionless, failing to play his proper role. Whether in a hotel or a great house, toffs were all the same—they’d stare at you like your hair had caught fire if you so much as dared to be something more than another piece of furniture, another useful thing.

Jimmy let them raise their eyebrows at him, not because he didn’t care, but because he _did_. He cared that Thomas was, for the time being, at Downton Abbey. He cared that there was still time to save… Thomas, to save him from the clutches of a vain, flirting footman.

_How_ Jimmy would save him, he hadn’t quite sorted out yet. But he knew what he had to do first.

He turned on his heel, and he walked away from the table, out of the dining room. The manager said something as he passed, then called out to him when he realised Jimmy wasn’t stopping. More people yelled, gesturing angrily as he stepped out of the sweltering kitchen and into the embrace of a cool, Spring breeze. Their words didn’t reach him, the sound nothing more than gnats buzzing in his ear. Gregory emerged from the crowd. He grabbed Jimmy’s shoulder, but—upon catching sight of Jimmy’s expression—he let go, and the heavy, metal door slammed shut.

Jimmy found that he could fit everything he owned neatly in his one valise. Or at least, everything he _needed_. This included the stack of Thomas’ letters, which he hid beneath a pile of shirts. The rest of his possessions he left behind with his waiter’s uniform for the family downstairs to do with as they wished. He would not be coming back for them. On the desk, he left—reluctantly—a dispiriting chunk of his meagre savings to cover the rent.

When he crept out onto the landing, the sky was black as pitch, but morning would be breaking soon. The mother was already in the kitchen, humming over the clatter of pots and pans. A baby gurgled. Jimmy tiptoed around them so he wouldn’t be seen. At the feel of a cold, wet snuffle against his trouser leg, he nearly jumped a foot in the air, but it was only one of the dogs, angling for a scratch behind the ears. He nudged the creature away with the toe of his shoe and picked up the pace. He had a bus to catch.


	2. Chapter 2

The bell connected to the staff entrance rang for a third time, jangling discordantly in a way that called to Andy’s mind a nest of hungry, shrieking baby birds he’d encountered on a walk in the woods the other day. With a sigh, he slipped the sheets of handwritten poetry he’d been reading and rereading into his trouser pocket, and got to his feet. A hall boy hurried past in the corridor. “Can’t stop!” he called behind him. “Mr Barrow’s orders!”

Convenient that whenever the door needed answering, everyone but Andy suddenly had pressing matters that couldn’t be avoided. Not that he meant to complain. He was grateful not to be a hall boy himself anymore in that pokey, little house in Bayswater. There were certain perks that came with his footman position at the Abbey—Mr Barrow’s friendship, for one, and the opportunity to see Daisy's pretty face every day, for another. But still he dreamed of the dirty, satisfying work to be found on a farm of his own, with a particular cook’s assistant by his side, if he had any luck—

Another impatient clang of the bell drowned out Andy’s musings. “All right, keep yer hair on,” he muttered, and stepped forward to swing open the door.

A young-ish man stood on the other side, cap in his hands. His suit was neat and clean, his blond hair arranged artfully in soft waves upon his brow, yet something about him made Andy think he’d been living rough. Perhaps it was the faded bruise dappled along his cheekbone, or the purple half-moons hanging below his eyes. Most strangely, the man was staring at Andy in open surprise, as if he expected the footman to pull off his face like a mask and reveal another fellow entirely underneath.

“Are you… _Andy?_ ” he said.

The question was so rude, and so abrupt, and so bizarre that Andy forgot what he _ought_ to say when he answered the door, replying instead, “You should say who you are first, seeing how you came knocking on the door an’ all.”

“Oh. Right.” The stranger puffed himself up, straightening his shoulders in that peculiar defense mechanism unique to men in service. “The name’s Jimmy Kent.” He smiled, his teeth perfect and white even as the fingers twisting his cap trembled minutely. “I used to work here. Thought I might pop by for a visit.”

The first time Andy heard Jimmy Kent’s name was months earlier, on a hot, sleepless night in June. Insomnia had plagued him from time to time since childhood—insomnia and those damned letters dancing around on the page—so, after a few hours of tossing and turning, he threw on his dressing gown and shoes, avoiding the creakier floorboards as he snuck downstairs. He hadn’t found a reliable cure until he came out to the countryside. Something about long, nighttime walks around the property seemed to do the trick. He’d go out for an hour, return to bed, and sleep like the dead before the morning alarm.

When he stepped off the last stair, his ears pricked up at muffled noises from down the passage. As he neared the entrance to the darkened servants’ hall, the sound resolved into unmistakeable weeping. “Oh, Jimmy, why did you have to leave me here alone?” someone said between sobs. “I can’t bear it.” Ragged though it was, Andy recognized right off the voice of Mr Barrow.

He paused. On the one hand, the under-butler probably wouldn’t appreciate him bursting in on such a vulnerable moment; on the other, to climb back up to the attic and pretend he’d heard nothing felt rather cruel. Mr Barrow had helped him on so many occasions, big and small, it seemed only right to try to return the favour. Before he could change his mind, he cleared his throat loudly, then popped his head around the side of the doorframe.

Mr Barrow sat in the armchair beside the unlit fireplace, a hunched figure hidden mostly in shadow. A near to empty bottle of gin glinted at his feet. His head shot up, white face suddenly illuminated by a stripe of moonlight from one of the windows. Tears shone on his cheeks like stars. Bloodless lips quivered. “Jimmy, is that you?” He was looking directly at Andy—or rather his dressing gown, for it was quite dark, and Mr Barrow likely couldn’t make out much more than a silhouette.

Andy couldn’t speak. He fumbled for the light switch, and the sconce on the wall blazed to life. Mr Barrow’s expression hardened into marble. “Oh. Andy, of course,” he muttered, voice flat. A dull, humourless _ha!_ escaped his throat. “I guess old Carson was right after all.”

Discreetly, he turned his head to wipe away the tears with the heels of his hands. He stumbled as he got to his feet, wobbly knees struggling to support his weight. With his good hand, he grasped the back of the armchair for balance. “Andrew,” he said, in a pale imitation of his usual commanding tone, “I was just… just…”

Shame swept through Andy in a hot wave. The man before him was the farthest thing in the world from the smooth, clever fellow who’d won Andy back his money and put that awful Denker woman in her place. He’d made a mistake, poking his nose in. No one was meant to see this, least of all an idiot footman like himself. But it was too late to back out now.

“You were just doing some last-minute inventory,” said Andy firmly. “And we should both go to bed.”

Mr Barrow nodded. “Quite right, Andrew.” Drink slurred the words a bit. He stepped away from the chair, and immediately began to sway. With a quick efficiency befitting his profession, Andy swept forward, taking Mr Barrow by the arm and picking up the bottle of gin in one fluid movement.

Together, they went first into the kitchen—to bin the bottle—then slowly up, up the winding servants’ stairs. Neither spoke, not until Mr Barrow was sprawled on his bed, shoes and jacket removed and placed neatly in his wardrobe. “Andy,” he whispered, “you won’t… you won’t mention—”

“It’s already forgotten.”

A weak smile drifted across Mr Barrow’s features. “Thank you.” Andy turned to leave. “And—” He looked back. “—you really are bright, even if you don’t believe it. You’ll make something of yourself one day, and you’ll feel foolish for… for ever thinkin’ you were a fool.”

Andy might’ve argued the point, but Mr Barrow’s eyes were closed, and he was snoring soundly.

True to his word, Andy didn’t speak to anyone about what had happened that night. Wondering, however, was another matter entirely. In duller moments—when he was shining his shoes, say, or standing at attention while the Family drank tea in the library—the question drifted back to him again and again: Who _is_ this person who ruined Thomas Barrow so completely, this “Jimmy?” He told himself that he could never, ever ask Mr Barrow such a thing, so he ought to let the mystery rest. But a few weeks later, an opportunity presented itself, one he couldn’t resist.

He and Daisy were walking the long, dusty road that led to Yew Tree Farm, the midday sun high and bright in the sky. Andy carried a basket of food under his arm, so that she was free to gesticulate as she talked. He loved to hear her speak about the things so important to her, the politics that lit a fire in her belly—Ramsay MacDonald, seats in the House of Commons, Republicanism, reform. It bothered him that some folks downstairs found her impassioned rhetoric silly, or a nuisance, even. He stuck up for her whenever he heard a hall boy or a maid flapping their gums. Before coming to Downton, he wouldn’t have rocked the boat, but Daisy made him bold.

She’d gone quiet for the time being. They basked in companionable silence. As they moved beyond the shadow of a tree, the light caught the hair escaping from her cloche in such a way it made Andy’s heart stutter in his chest. There were certain moments made to be captured in poetry, and this was one of them. He tried to think of a satisfactory word to rhyme with “chestnut.”

Suddenly, Daisy swept her arm out, pointing to a flat, open field dotted with white flowers. “They used to hold a fair out there, back before the war. Had games an’ everythin’. Mr Barrow took me once. He were a perfect gentleman, you know. Didn’t try anything funny.”

_I bet he didn’t,_ Andy thought, even as a quicker part of his brain mulled over the fact that Mr Barrow and Daisy had worked together at the Abbey for a long time, and were quite familiar with one another. He’d known this already, of course, but it hadn’t really come to mind since the mysterious Jimmy had entered the picture. The higher-ups like Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore would button up right quick if Andy came to them with questions, but Daisy might be more amenable. He hoped she was amenable towards him, at any rate.

“Daisy, do you happen to know anyone called ‘Jimmy?’”

Her brow wrinkled. “Do ya mean Jimmy Kent?”

“I might do.”

“Who mentioned the name?”

“Ah, Mr Barrow, as a matter of fact.” Guilt niggled at him—but he hadn’t gone into detail, now had he?

She nodded. “That’d be Jimmy Kent, then. ‘James,’ we had to call him when Mr Carson were around. He and Thomas were thick as thieves right up until he left Downton.”

“He worked at the house, you mean?”

“For a few years, yeah. He were a footman, same as you.”

Andy vaguely remembered mention of a footman when Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore had taken him aside to warn him off being too friendly with Mr Barrow. Yes—there’d been something about Mr Barrow being caught in a compromising position with the footman Andy was replacing, and the two of them getting into trouble as a result. They didn’t want any _more_ trouble, they’d said, so it’d be best for everyone if he didn’t give Mr Barrow the wrong idea.

“And the two of them were… friends?” Andy prompted Daisy. “Very _close_ friends?”

“Oh, sure. Well, everyone’s living in each other’s pockets in service at a house like that, but them more than most. You hardly saw one without the other.” She frowned, her pace slowing. “Although they did have a falling out once. Jimmy would say these things about Mr Barrow—I didn’t know what he meant, really—but you could tell they were nasty from the way he said ’em.” She shrugged. “And then it was over, and they were as good mates as they ever were.”

Now it was Andy’s turn to frown. “So their fight wasn’t why Jimmy left?”

“No, no, that came years after. That was another funny thing, though. He took off quite suddenly. Just gone one morning _—poof—_ with no warning. Mr Carson gave him a reference an’ all, so I reckon it couldn’t have been anything sordid. Got a better job somewhere else, maybe.” Daisy stopped and removed her shoe to shake out a pebble. “Mr Barrow were awful torn up about it. He didn’t want anyone to know, but o’course we all did. He got sick after that. Heartsick, if you ask me.”

New information slotted neatly into place like the pieces of a puzzle. There were still blank spots here and there, but with a little imagination, the picture became clear. Mr Barrow and this Jimmy fellow had been involved, for years it sounded like. How the bitter patch fit into things, Andy wasn’t quite sure—a lovers’ quarrel, perhaps? Whatever the reason, they’d been on good terms when Jimmy had left, which must have made the abandonment all the worse for poor Mr Barrow. Andy couldn’t believe Mr Barrow was the one who’d done the heart breaking, considering he was still hurt after all that time. Besides, he was a decent sort deep down, no matter what people said—he could never be so cold or callous with someone he truly loved.

A terrible weight came to rest on Andy’s chest as a cloud passed in front of the sun. “That’s… that’s an awfully sad story.”

Daisy nudged him with her elbow. He tingled under his jacket where she’d touched him. “It’s not all dreadful,” she said. “They write to one another.”

“They do?”

“I mean, I assume they still do. Don’t you remember when Mr Barrow read one of Jimmy’s letters aloud at dinner?”

Baffled, Andy shook his head.

Daisy’s eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, I know why you don’t! You were horribly ill that day. Mr Carson sent you up to bed. And that hall boy Peter had to go out into the kitchen yard to hose off his shoes—”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” Andy cut in hurriedly. He couldn’t help but wonder why a man would break someone’s heart yet go to the trouble of keeping in touch. An uncomfortable theory settled into the back of his skull—that Jimmy Kent, with a cruel sort of foresight, made certain his old lover was forever under his spell in case he ever needed money or a job or some such thing. A swell of protectiveness rose up in Andy. He knew precisely the squirmy, helpless feeling that came with being taken advantage of; he hated to think one of his few true friends might be wriggling on the hook.

Once their feet carried them around the final bend in the road, Andy and Daisy spotted Yew Tree Farm rising up to meet them in the middle distance, the stone buildings laid out like children’s blocks, with large, untidy bushes pressed up against the garden walls.

“Mind you, Mr Barrow’s a very private man,” said Daisy, a smile tugging at her little rosebud mouth, and gentle mischief crinkling the corners of her eyes. “He’d have my guts for garters if he knew I’d told you any of _that._ ”

Warmth flooded Andy’s chest. He said, after a moment made hushed and golden by the dapples of sunlight shining through the branches overhead, “I suppose I owe you a favour, then.”

“A kiss will do.” A ridiculous grin overtook Andy’s face. “On the _cheek,_ mind!” she hastened to add. “I don’t know about the girls you went with in Bayswater, but I’m respectable, like.”

There’d been no girls in Bayswater, at least none that had made him feel the way Daisy did. As he leaned in to shyly brush his lips against soft, rosy skin, he understood precisely how a man as clever as Mr Barrow could be such a fool for love.

Standing between Jimmy Kent and the entrance to Downton Abbey, these past events sprang to Andy’s mind. He thought also of a time when he’d dashed out of the men’s quarters washroom, fear clawing at his throat and the sight of red, swirling water imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. The last one wasn’t Jimmy’s fault, Andy knew that, but he suspected the man wasn’t entirely exempt from blame, either. Maybe none of them were. Mr Barrow had had a rough go of it the past year. Things were only just now starting to turn around for him; the last thing he needed was some smarmy git popping by to rip open old wounds.

But what could Andy do? It wasn’t his right to turn Jimmy away; he’d only come back later, and be let in by someone else. He could punch him, right in his perfect nose, feel the _crack_ beneath his knuckles, an unmistakable sign that Jimmy knew some measure of the pain he had caused. But Andy had grown up with three bigger, stronger brothers—as a result, he was uncomfortable with violence.

So he stepped aside and let the other man pass through the doorway. Jimmy certainly didn’t walk like a servant. He strutted at Andy’s side rather like he owned the place, although Andy noticed he was gnawing his lip raw, his eyes darting about like a hawk’s. They walked into the servants’ hall, where Daisy was setting out a tray of lemon biscuits. Her face registered surprise for a moment, before she planted her hands on her hips and affected a haughty expression. “Well, I suppose they’ll just let anyone in here now, hm?”

Jimmy grinned back, shameless. “Hullo to you too, Daisy.”

She gave up on her teasing, urging him into a chair and handing him two biscuits on a saucer. He polished them off quickly, as if he hadn’t eaten well in some time, while she bombarded him with questions about how he was doing, and where he’d been, and why he’d come back to Downton. He waited politely until she’d finished.

“I was working in York, like the letter said,” he explained. His words were precise and even in a way that made Andy wonder if he’d rehearsed this little speech. “But then I heard about an opening near here—a job in service with sizeable pay. The interview’s tomorrow, but I decided to stop in here first and see how everyone was getting on.” He smiled winningly at Daisy as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Mr Barrow tells me that you’re a regular woman of letters these days.”

She blushed, which Andy didn’t like at all. Then her eyes widened. “Oh—Thomas! He’ll be so pleased to see you. I think he’s in the wine cellar. I’ll run and fetch him.” And she was off.

Andy had intended to take Mr Barrow aside beforehand and warn him privately not to get suckered in by false promises and a pretty face. But of course he couldn’t do that now. Instead he sat down next to Jimmy, as if he needed to keep an eye on him, which was rather unnecessary. People had been drawn by the commotion, and there was a rush of noise and movement while everyone filed in to greet the ex-footman. Anna carefully handed him a photograph of the Bates baby, swaddled in a blanket with lips gently parted in sleep. Mrs Patmore scolded him for being too skinny and piled a tower of baked goods onto his plate. Even the new maids, who’d never met him, found something to say.

Every once in a while, he glanced at Andy out of the corner of his eye, covertly sizing him up. Andy glared back and took increasingly vicious bites out of his own biscuit.

At one point, Jimmy gestured to the wireless sitting in its cabinet beside the table. “I see Mr Carson has finally joined the rest of us in the twentieth century,” he said.

Anna shook her head. She was sewing a button back onto a dress, her tea growing cold beside her. “That was Mr Barrow’s idea. He thought it would liven things up a bit. Mr Carson wasn’t very pleased, but Mr Barrow’s the butler now, so he couldn’t do much about it.”

“Is he?” Jimmy’s face lit up, so that the bruises and the undereye circles and the sickly tint to his skin seemed almost to disappear. Andy reckoned he was thinking of how much more money could be wrung out of a butler’s salary. “Good for him.”

“Mr Carson still comes by on Saturdays, but it’s not official, really,” Anna continued. “And he won’t even be doing that by the end of the month.”

Jimmy smirked. “I’m sure he’s thrilled by the prospect of retirement.”

“Oh, I’ve kept him busy with gardening, don’t you worry,” said Mrs Hughes from her spot at the other end of the table, dutifully checking items off a list. “He’ll have those carrots whipped into shipshape in no time.”

Chuckles erupted throughout the hall. With everyone so distracted, Andy was the only one to see that—before he properly entered the room—Mr Barrow poked his head around the doorway, rather like a frightened little boy. Then he sauntered in, from top to bottom the dignified butler, his ever-present clipboard tucked under his arm. The servants got to their feet amidst the screeching of chair legs against the floor. Jimmy stood as well.

When Mr Barrow said his name, it didn’t sound like any sort of greeting. It was more like the way a person spoke in church. Jimmy bounded over to him. “Thomas!” he said, and his arms twitched at his sides so that Andy thought he would embrace the other man. He didn’t, of course, although their hands remained clasped a bit longer than a friendly handshake would allow for.

“Sorry I didn’t call ahead,” said Jimmy. “I weren’t thinking.”

The two of them wandered over to the table. Jimmy sat in the same seat as before, and Thomas joined him on the left, rather than his usual butler’s chair at the head. The other servants dispersed, drawn away by chores and other day-to-day business, but Andy stayed put in his spot at Jimmy’s right. If Mr Barrow and his fairweather friend weren’t left alone, Jimmy couldn’t ask for money on the sly.

“You were too thinkin’.” Mr Barrow’s impeccable upstairs voice had evaporated. “You were thinkin’ you could sneak in here and avoid old Carson’s disapproving glare.” He leaned close to Jimmy, a sturdy beech overtaken by an unexpected gust of wind.

“You’ve got me there.” Andy could only guess how many men—women too, possibly—had been taken in by that cheeky grin.

Mr Barrow said, “Lucky for you, the new butler’s let this place go to pot.”

Jimmy nudged him with his shoulder, an easy, natural gesture. “That’s all right, just so long as he has a spare ciggie for an old chum.” Mr Barrow dug around in his pockets for the cardboard packet and lighter. Andy realised this was how Jimmy intended to broach the subject of money. Next he’d say, _Seeing how you’re in a generous mood…_

“You ought to go down to the inn and see about a room.” Andy didn’t quite realise he’d said it aloud until Thomas and Jimmy slowly turned to face him as one. They both appeared slightly bewildered, like they’d forgotten he was there. Jimmy’s surprised expression quickly gave way to a curled lip that suggested he’d caught a whiff of something Isis had tracked in from outside. Undeterred, Andy continued, “If you leave it too long, they might run out of vacancies.”

“I’ve already been,” Jimmy snapped. Then, in a much kinder tone, he said to Mr Barrow, “I was hoping, though, that I could stay here the rest of the day. Otherwise I’ll be dead bored, wiling away the hours down at the pub. I promise not to get underfoot.”

Mr Barrow snorted. “Jimmy Kent? Not underfoot? There’s a trick.” He handed over a fag with his gloved hand, then reached up with the unblemished one so that by the time the white paper was between Jimmy’s lips, the lighter had risen to meet it, orange flame glowing at the top. Timed perfectly, as if they’d performed this dance a hundred times before. “O’course you can stay.” Then he added in an undertone, “Just keep out of sight of the upstairs, you know.”

Jimmy’s charming, unflappable manner deserted him for a moment. He hung his head, the picture of a naughty child. “Naturally,” he muttered. Andy wondered, not for the first time, what the exact circumstances were behind Jimmy leaving Downton Abbey.

“Mr Carson won’t approve of this,” said Andy. Even to his own ears, he sounded petulant and whiny. Damned words, they were always his enemy. If he couldn’t convince Mr Barrow that the man was trouble, then… then…

Then Mr Barrow might surrender again to the blackness, and Andy might be unable to pull him out.

Sitting in the wobbly, wooden chair in the servants’ hall, Mr Barrow straightened up as much as his spine would allow, so that he could peer down his nose at Andy. He said, in a cold, condescending tone he’d never used with Andy before, “It’s a good job he’s not coming until tomorrow then. And even if he _were_ here—” He stood, with chest puffed out and clipboard in hand. “— _I’m_ the butler now, and I can invite whatever guests I please belowstairs.”

“Yes, Mr Barrow,” Andy replied. He suspected if he’d been anyone else, he’d be looking at a week of extra silver polishing.

“I think we _all_ have work to be getting on with,” Mr Barrow continued, an eyebrow arched significantly. Then he swept out into the hall.

Jimmy’s eyes were bright as he gazed at the butler’s retreating back. When he’d disappeared around a corner, that smug, perfectly-formed face swiveled in Andy’s direction. Jimmy smirked, quite deliberately, as he blindly tapped cigarette ash onto a nearby saucer. Probably he was already picturing himself swanning about York in a dashing new suit, while Thomas Barrow sat in a cold, lonely attic room, waiting for a fulfillment of a sweetheart’s promise that would never come.

Andy got up from his seat. _You haven’t won yet, matey,_ he thought, and righteousness thrummed within him like a shivering note played upon a string.

\---

Late morning had given way to purple evening, grey, wooly clouds gathering overhead, yet Thomas still had to resist the urge to pinch himself. Sitting in the butler’s chair, he focused his attention on the wine list laying before him, double checking what would need to be ordered for the dinner party in a week’s time. But every once in a while, his eyes darted to the golden-haired figure perched at the piano, picking out a jolly, little tune. He couldn’t quite shake the mad idea that if he didn’t, Jimmy Kent would vanish like some spectre conjured from his wild imaginings.

“Say, can _you_ play an instrument, Andy?” asked Jimmy, tilting his head back to regard the grumpy footman who sat in the corner of the servants’ hall.

“No,” answered Andy shortly.

“That’s a shame.” Jimmy grinned and finished off the song with a wholly unnecessary—but nevertheless impressive—flourish.

Thomas’ loyalty to Andy reared its head, reminding him that he ought to take Jimmy aside to tell him not to tease the poor man so, that he didn’t really deserve it. But it was summarily trounced by the joy suffusing his chest at watching Jimmy—there, real as life in front of him—playing the brat. His head sang with memories of Jimmy pulling faces at him over the servants’ hall table whenever Alfred said something foolish. And Thomas would stifle a smile, feeling a warmth, a sense of connection from the other man that might almost be mistaken for love.

In the present Daisy, a bit of flour smudged on her cheek, bustled in to offer Andy an extra slice of cake. He smiled up at her. Their fingers brushed when he grabbed the plate, and she blushed. For some reason, Jimmy wrinkled his nose at the sight, shooting Thomas a vaguely bewildered look as if to say, _Are you seeing this?_

Thomas shrugged nonchalantly in return. Jimmy was a fine one for being put-out by flirting between a footman and a kitchen maid. That was clearly not the answer he’d been hoping for. Sadness drifted across Jimmy’s features, accompanied by no small dose of pity. It was the pity that worried Thomas. He’d taken such care to make certain Jimmy never knew about… well, everything that had happened to Thomas since he’d left. It was bad enough to have Baxter and all the rest treating him with kid gloves, he didn’t want to be diminished in Jimmy’s eyes as well. He wanted to be the fellow that Jimmy had known only two years ago, the smug, dark bastard Jimmy had deemed worthy of being his friend.

“Any requests, Mr Barrow?” Jimmy asked.

_Yes, to smooth those lines from your brow,_ thought Thomas. _To tell you that you needn’t worry; with you here, I feel as if I could fly._ “You know what I like,” he said.

Jimmy smiled, and he might well have been wearing footman’s livery, fresh from serving dinner. “That I do.” He turned back to the keys. A soft, slow song drifted on the air.

Thomas’ throat grew tight. He’d been drunk the first time he’d heard this music. They’d both been drunk—enough so that Thomas had dared to sit beside Jimmy on the piano bench, and Jimmy hadn’t minded. “This one’s my favourite,” Thomas had whispered shyly as if they weren’t alone in the half-light of the servants’ hall, “my very favourite out of everything I’ve heard you play.” He’d never forget that night as long as he lived. But he’d always assumed that Jimmy had.

Movement caught the corner of his eye—Andy taking a deep breath, seemingly to steel himself for something. He was looking directly at Thomas. He stood up from his seat and walked over. Sighing, Thomas set his clipboard down. “Mr Barrow, may I speak with you privately?” asked Andy. Thomas nodded, leading him down the corridor to the butler’s pantry. When he passed through the entryway, he saw for a moment Jimmy’s face in flawless profile, one dark eye fixed on the figure of Thomas slipping out into the hall, Andy at his side. The gentle melody skittered to an unceremonious halt.

_A butler’s work is never done,_ Thomas thought dryly, unlocking the door to his office and gesturing to Andy to enter. As a footman, he’d been certain that Mr Carson was playing up the importance of his job so he could strut amongst the other servants with a puffed-up chest and a superior air. Now that he was in his shoes, he’d come to realise the old goat had actually been keeping quiet about so many dull and thankless tasks that were necessary to keep the house afloat.

It was not the future he’d imagined for himself when he was young. No, that future hadn’t been a job at all, but rather a person—a broad-shouldered, unmistakably masculine figure who would stand by his side during the day and would fall into his embrace at night.

As much as he wished to blame the follies of childhood, he had held onto that particular dream long past any imaginable definition of “youth.” If he were honest—and he always was within the confines of his mind—he hadn’t given it up until his Prince Charming had tumbled into bed with someone else, and Thomas had taken up injecting poison into his veins. _Fashion as good a life as you’re able,_ that’s what Clarkson had told him when he’d stood before him in the examination room, humiliated and on the verge of collapse. Loathe though he was to give the smarmy, self-righteous doctor any credit, he’d done just that.

So if he felt that anything was lacking in his life, it must have never been in the cards to begin with.

When Thomas turned back from closing the door behind him, he found Andy staring at him as if to bore holes in his skull. He beat his fist against his thigh the way he used to when he struggled with his letters.

“What’s the matter, Andy?” Thomas said, as gently as he could. “If this is about those poems, there’s no need to be so nervous—”

“Mr Barrow,” interrupted Andy in a rush, “do you—I mean, are you _sure_ about what you’re doing?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “If you have an issue with the way I run this household—”

Andy shook his head vehemently. “He just… he doesn’t seem reliable. This Jimmy Kent person.”

In a red-hot flash, every nasty comment Thomas had ever heard about Jimmy passed through his mind— _vain, rude, selfish, snide, lazy._ What in the hell did they know, any of them? There was more to him than that; Thomas had _seen_ it. _Perhaps you see what you want to see,_ hissed a silky voice not unlike O’Brien’s in his ear. _You were so certain he was in love with you, once upon a time._ The anger simmering in his belly cranked up another notch.

“Tell me what I ought to do, Andy,” he barked. He knew he’d regret it later, but in the moment it felt bloody _right._ “Should I turn out his pockets before he leaves to make certain he doesn’t run off with the best silver? Should I force him to sign an affidavit swearing he hasn’t—” He’d been about to say _hasn’t defiled Lady Mary,_ but apparently that hit too close to the truth, because his throat closed up around the words.

“Oh, damn the house! It’s _you_ I’m worried about, Thomas!” Too loud. They both winced. Hopefully no one was listening outside the door. “You’re my _friend,_ ” Andy continued, softer now. “You helped me escape Miss Denker’s clutches, and I—I don’t want to see you hurt.”

They were standing close to one another. There was no heat between them, no electricity as there had been between Thomas and other men. He was glad of it. Uncomplicated friends weren’t easy to come by, not for him, and wayward attraction was the last thing he needed when his heart was still tangled up in yearning for someone else.

“Jimmy is no Denker,” said Thomas. He let his shoulders sag, his tense jaw relax. “He’s never tried to trick me, or play me for a fool.” _You played the fool well enough on your own,_ put in the horrid voice. “I know precisely where I stand with him, as he does with me. But—” After a moment’s hesitation, he placed a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “—I appreciate your concern. It means a great deal to me.”

He received a smile in return, shy but full of warm feeling, as if there was nothing shameful in being touched by a man like Thomas. At that moment, the door shot open with a bang. Thomas and Andy automatically sprang apart. In the entryway stood Jimmy Kent, glowering at them. “Sorry, Mr Barrow,” he muttered. “I didn’t know you had company.” But he betrayed himself by glancing away as he said it.

“It’s quite all-right. I believe Andrew and I are finished.” Andy nodded and left, but not before shooting Jimmy a suspicious glance. The door closed again. Jimmy and Thomas were alone.

Thomas took a couple of steps back—that damned electricity was certainly doing its work _now_ —which only deepened the lines and ridges scoured into that golden face. With equal parts affection and sadness, he decided that the man standing before him would not look out of place crouched atop the spire of some dour, looming Gothic cathedral. Affection, because he had missed Jimmy’s mercurial changes of mood, even the dark ones—and sadness, because it wasn’t only his expression that made Jimmy look so dreadful.

The fading black eye had not escaped Thomas’ notice, nor the hunched shoulders, nor the dark, haunted gaze. Jimmy was running from something, that much was clear. Knowing him, he’d probably gotten himself into trouble—owed some unscrupulous character money he couldn’t pay. Thomas had no illusions that Jimmy had dropped in _just because._ Well, if he’d come to beg for a loan, Thomas wouldn’t hesitate to turn out his pockets. Andy meant well, but he couldn’t stop Thomas from being an indulgent old fool any more than he could stop the sun from setting.

“I have to start my walk back to the inn,” said Jimmy. He was wearing his cap and coat. “Don’t want to be locked out.”

Oh. This was it, then—quite possibly the last time Thomas would ever see the man he loved. Fighting back the crushing weight pressing upon his chest, he arranged a polite smile onto his face. He held out his hand for Jimmy to shake.

The other man ignored it. “Thomas, I need to speak to you, but not here at the Abbey. When can you come see me at the inn tomorrow?”

“When do you leave for your interview?” Thomas asked.

Jimmy bit his lip. “When can you come?” he repeated, quite insistently.

“I suppose I could get away after we serve luncheon. You remember when that is, don’t you?”

The indignant face Jimmy wore yanked Thomas from stifling tears to stifling laughter in a matter of seconds. “I haven’t been off to _war,_ you numpty. ’Course I remember.” He turned to leave, hesitated, turned back. “Thomas, you—you should never settle for being second in anybody’s books. You’re better than that, you really are.” And then he was gone.

For several long minutes, Thomas stood frozen in place, his heart flayed—no, _blooming_ open, like the petals of a flower in the gentle warmth of Spring.


End file.
